12/2/2017 Poetry by Austin BeatonTristan Loper CC Recipe Anxious Months narrow in single overcast cone around this bathroom without mirror to re-meet the self, watch remembering the forgetting to floss, get tires rotated, forcing of wanting to not want to rip inner pink of the head from under its scalp skin. Smoke smell (practiced assumed) not existent (even when it is). Scan: retinas shift, sunny oak branch shade in wind. Anger towards a neutral stranger’s way of face. Mouth inhale air (should be spit). Sweat high beams—behind shoulder backs-- flashin’ ya though the driver maybe went over a hump (maybe doesn’t mean it like that); you won’t really know like you won’t really know anything is a receipt for staying in, counting: blood pulse, 7 car pile up thought, the protons in the bed post. We regret to inform you we don’t regret to inform you the morning is an envelope is empty. Look: not all people built happy (though every one built something). Race: the truth you can’t sprint out body, heart beat ceiling fan felt spinning you walk, trying staying inside a name. Self Citizen’s Arrest Sleepless-ish night indictment: forgetting 16 day 43 minute since 59 humans shot by trigger easy fingered like XBOX joystick. On anxiety’s trial for being complicit to the binary of shampoos, pink fragrance over blue to unbottle myself to want not you one woman, but women woman unlike man men (smelling rose petal, ginger skirt walking hair whiffs). Subpoena for worship of false Jesus: the seagull V shape ass jean wrinkle an altar to underwear covers hidden skeleton flesh-wrapped in anecdotes, fibs, perjury to the self assuming the body understands time: innumerable folds in the black origami shaping a decade we can’t predict unless you wait and still maybe not (these good ole days we might bathe in laid silent parallel the sidewalk, stories to unstack later (describing what was so now isn’t)). Probational of parking tickets and skipped yoga classes. Citation of citation. Sentenced to be stuck around till the alarm clock fusses or one pigeon flaps out the waiting room of patience we forget we were in, walled below calypso goddesses aging to learn they often wish their cul-de-sacs would flatten to stage sets & be wheeled towards anywhere but here. Elegy for Playing House I kiss incorrectly different against affection surprises, slice of watermelon tossed out neighbored window under hot April forecasted 46. Throat in a neck (black box of sex) bullshitts the idiocy of athletics, importance to start the conga while I relearn me to teach you anger again. Since you woke and walked out rubbing toddler eyes in a room of beards cooking meth with Daddy when I forget a laptop on an airplane you fuck me. With internet it’s easy to iron a philosophy upon who we lust when dysfunction since the sandbox, simple to see past future chaos, realize we didn’t know there wasn’t much wrong with there being not much wrong. Try and get back at the cosmos: skip brushing teeth before bed, pretend to prefer cuddling the ghost one less woman between me and Momma. Bio: Austin Beaton studied Spanish and Creative Writing and regret at the University of Oregon, where he was a finalist for the Walter and Nancy Kidd Memorial Writing Competition in Poetry. His work has appeared in Peach Mag, The Stay Project, (b)OINK, Porridge Magazine, Voicemail Poems and is forthcoming in Oxidant Engine and the Angel City Review. He lives near the ocean in San Luis Obispo, California where he drinks flat H20 from a sparkling water bottle, bakes figs, and gives nicknames. Comments are closed.
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